Desperate Times
by Hutchie
Summary: Kid gives himself up to get medical attention for his partner.   ...Rating & Warning: pg-13 for violence & angst.  And it's a bit dark.


**Desperate Times**

by Allie

**Summary: **Kid gives himself up to get medical attention for his partner.

**Rating / Warning: pg-13 violence, angst. And it's a bit dark.**

**Author's note:** This story idea seems very familiar to me. I'm thinking it's because I've wanted to write it for ages, but it could be because I read something similar and loved it! Anyway, no copying meant. :) And the characters aren't mine, I'm just playing with them. :)

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"C'mon, Heyes," hissed a worried, familiar voice. Heyes had been, for the last hour or so, vaguely aware of that familiar presence, as he drifted in and out of consciousness.

At first, he'd given Heyes something sweet and nasty tasting, mixed with the liquor. Then it had been just sips of plain alcohol, the cheap stuff they'd acquired at the last town. Sips that grew smaller as the time passed.

For the last—he didn't know how long, but it felt like an age—there had been nothing but water. And the fever burned hot and clear and the pain scorched him from the inside.

Memories and hallucinations mixed. When he was conscious of himself, of his surroundings, he saw Kid's anxious, pale face, staring down at him, felt the hand in his own encouraging him to not give up.

It was reassuring to see Kid, instead of nightmares: of the bullet that had winged him. Of all the running and hiding they had done these last years. Of Death, approaching.

It was not so reassuring to see the stark terror in Kid's eyes, hidden poorly by his smile. The encouraging words, the hand squeezing his own, did not conceal how very desperate the situation was.

When Heyes slipped back into the fever, at least he did not have to see it. He wished there was an easy way—or any way—out of this. In his coherent moments, his brain ticked like a clock, trying to find one.

But any way he stacked it, he was done. The fever was going too far. He'd be gone soon, past the point of being able to think at all—screaming in pain, or passing out (a relief it would be), and then darkness, death. A hell of a way to go.

The worst of it, perhaps, was making Kid watch. But he knew his friend would never agree to leave, to miss the final fight. Heyes tightened his grip on Kid's hand, and took a shaky breath. He was covered in sweat, weaker than he'd ever been.

Time to say those last words, before he couldn't anymore. Time to give Kid something good to remember him by.

"Kid." His voice was so weak.

Curry was blinking hard, his sensitive mouth set, but still wobbly-looking.

"Heyes." He kept his hand in Heyes, looking at him soberly, damp-eyed. Holding the water ready, in case Heyes wanted more.

"You've been a good partner, Kid."

Curry swallowed.

"Watched my… back real good."

Stark disbelief met his gaze. Curry snorted. "I let you get shot."

"Kid, you couldn't help that. Just happened." He took a shaky, painful breath. His shoulder burned. Oh how it burned. All this time, and taken down by a shoulder wound that got infected.

And not a day's ride from a town, neither. A town that had one of the fiercest sheriffs around, a town of hateful posses who would string you up soon as look at you. And who would recognize Heyes and Curry all too well from their last visit here.

The other way, the way they'd come, was nothing but hot, bare desert country, the nearest civilization the one they'd been chased out of with barely the skin on their necks—and that throbbing, worsening wound on Heyes shoulder.

At first he'd tried to pretend everything was all right—he'd be fine, no worries. But every jar in the saddle pained him. The hot fire in his shoulder burned and burned. And instead of getting better, it had gotten worse. Even with the searing liquor and the precious water that Curry had set his mouth tight and poured on, it had gotten worse.

Heyes remembered biting down on his handkerchief to keep from crying out at this pain of the attempted sterilization of his wound—and how it hadn't worked. His scream had rent the sky, with no one to hear but the coyotes, and Kid, who had bent over him, trying to comfort him, promising wildly that he was done, he only had to re-wrap it now.

He'd wrapped the sweat-soaked rag of a shirt tightly, trying to keep Heyes' attention elsewhere by talking to him. Heyes had passed out before Kid was through, come to with both of them riding the same horse, Kid holding him up protectively and holding the reins, Heyes' horse following behind.

They couldn't afford to stop for long on that great desert area, and they hadn't—riding whether Heyes was up for it or not. They hadn't the water to tarry, nor the assurance that the last posse, the shootin' posse, wouldn't be after them anyway. They'd be easy to track across all that wasteland, leaving tracks visible a mile away. And their water was running low.

Heyes had been barely conscious by the time they reached the shady, hilly country and the cave he now lay panting in. Its coolness, and the water Kid found, had seemed a welcome respite, a hope, a chance to survive. The town in the distance had seemed more so.

So he had drunk water, then slept, while Kid snuck off to town. Kidd returned ashen-faced, a tiny bottle of laudanum secreted on his person. He'd stolen it from a kitchen, leaving payment in its place and hared out of there as soon as he realized what town it was.

They must've gotten turned around somehow, as they'd never have come within a hundred miles of this place, if they'd realized. Petty Junction. Once you'd been here, you'd never forget. Especially not if you'd seen what they did to poor Ol' Bill. Sure, he was a criminal, but he hadn't deserved to die like that. And Heyes and Curry would have been in line next if it hadn't been for some luck and quick thinking, and Kid's skill with a six-shooter.

Panting, Heyes stared back up at Curry bleakly. To come so far, to almost make it—and to die on the outskirts of Petty Junction.

It was no sort of life, theirs, and no sort of death. And no sort of situation for Kid to be stuck in, all alone, between the desert and the devil.

"Kid…" He tried again, squeezing the cool hand in his hot one. "I want you to take care of yourself, now," he croaked, his lips hot and chapped, pain making his whole body seem to whirl, and his head seem oddly disconnected from the rest of him, as if his hold were tenuous at best on life, on sanity, on anything. He squeezed as hard as he could, trying to keep himself here, to get Kid's attention. "I won't be here to look after you."

"No," said Kid, his voice thick with grief, almost incoherant. He leaned forward, his head landing to rest on Heyes' chest with a thump, sweated blond curls tickling the bottom of Heyes' chin. "No you can't die. You can't. I'll move heaven and earth. I swear I'll—I'll fight the devil himself—"

His voice choked off. Kid rarely let so much emotion show, and Heyes felt a needle-prick of tears, sharp in his aching eyes. Everything hurt, everything. It hurt so terribly much to die.

"Kid," said Heyes. He brought one hand as high as he could and let it fall on Kid's head, massaging the curls gently as he had not done in so long. Seeing Kid like this reminded him of the boy Kid had been, so long ago. The boy who had cried when his parents died, the boy Heyes' had tried to awkwardly comfort, and promised to take care of from now on.

He'd kept his promise really well, hadn't he?

"All right," Heyes said. Had to clear his throat to keep talking.

Talking. He'd always been good at it, and he ought to keep his words going as long as he could now, to give Kid some comfort. Maybe, just maybe, he could con Kid into believing it.

"You'll be fine. Hole up here, bury me, get water, head out again an' stay clean till the amnesty. Easier with one. Won't recognize Heyes and Curry. Dye your hair, maybe. Work on not wearing that gun. Take things slow and easy, keep a low profi—"

"No!" Kid pulled back from his chest, and glared down at him with the single-minded look of determination in those steely blue eyes, bright with unshed tears, stubborn even in the face of death he was helpless to prevent. "You're not allowed to die!" If wishing could do it, Heyes would be in the peak of health right now, spring to his feet fully well. If anyone's determination could make it happen, it would be Kid's….

Heyes saved his breath. There was no arguing with Kid when he got like this. Indeed, Heyes very much wished that he was well enough—that he'd be here long enough—to have a good long argument with Kid. To see that stubborn face for many days more.

He felt tears prickle his eyes again. "You're killin' me here, Kid," he said in an agonized voice.

Wasn't a man supposed to be strong and brave about death? Promise he'd be okay, and say all the right words, and then quietly go to pieces afterwards, maybe drink himself into the grave? Not that he wanted Kid to do that, either.

"No!" repeated Kid, with all the stubbornness of a five-year-old refusing to do something. And he released Heyes' hand and scrambled up from his knees. With a last defiant, white-faced glance back at Heyes, he ran from the cave.

"Kid!" called Heyes, one last agonizing time, and then he fell silent, gasping for breath, the awfulness of being abandoned mixing with the swirling blackness, as the worst of the debilitating fever crept over him again, and darkness descended….

#

Kid's face was set as he re-saddled his horse, checked his gun and then as an afterthought grabbed Heyes' gun as well. There might just be enough ammunition in both to get him through this.

He heard Heyes call to him, in an agonizing voice, filled with hurt and pain. Kid knew he would never forget it, that it would haunt him for the rest of his life, even if by some miracle Heyes survived.

But if he didn't leave now, if he stayed and explained, Heyes wouldn't let him do it—and then he'd die for sure.

So, with tears clouding his eyes, Kid leaped into his saddle, and spurred his horse towards town.

He worked his way 'round the town and approached from the rear, the large facades nothing but plywood from behind, like a tawdry joke, these things that were supposed to make the town look larger and more prosperous.

He made it to the rear of the sheriff's building, and alighted from his horse. He gave her a distracted pat, and dropped the reins. She could graze. He wouldn't need her ever again.

Now for the hardest part. He had managed to stay undetected so far….

#

The sheriff heard a click by his ear and looked up to see Kid Curry's grim and grimy face looking down at him. And a gun barrel larger than life.

"Sit tight, sheriff. I'm telling you how it's going to be."

Sheriff John Karl leaned back and stared up into his face. "We don't listen to your kind here. You'll be strung up. There is no way for you to get out of this town alive. And if you do, if you kill me and escape, they'll hunt you down, and never quit. You—Kid Curry—got away from this town once. It won't happen again."

As he spoke, he rose slowly, till he was towering over the glaring Kid Curry, staring at his face, not his gun. He looked fierce and dangerous.

Kid shrugged. "Doesn't matter. I don't expect to get out of it alive. But you won't either, if you don't do as I say. And you might not be the only one. How about it? Want to die to take down one Kid Curry, or would you like to hear me out, and maybe take in both Kid Curry and Hannibal Heyes?"

The sheriff glared at him for a long moment. Their eyes met and gazes locked. Then the sheriff slowly sat down and crossed his arms. "Let's hear it."

Kid took a deep breath. "Heyes is injured. I want him fetched—gently—and doctored. I want him alive and a telegram sent to Lom Trevors that he's sick and he's here, and needs to be picked up for the law. You'll get the reward for him. And you get me either way."

"Either way?"

"Yeah. Soon as the telegram's sent, you can't kill Heyes, or Lom will know about it. And if you do find a way to double-cross me, you'll still be dead. I can't miss from here. And the town will only get half the reward. I guarantee you'll never find Heyes where I've hidden him."

#

The two men stared at each other, as the sheriff rolled the deal over in his mind.

Curry pulled out a chair by hooking his foot around it, and seating himself cautiously. Gone was the unflappable, utterly calm gunslinger who had nothing but confidence in himself and his partner. This man was in a bad way, really at the end of his rope, desperate.

Karl hated Curry and Heyes, had since they robbed the bank here years ago. They'd gotten away with a great deal of money, which they'd promptly wasted and gone back to robbing more banks and trains.

He—and the town—would get their revenge if it was the last thing they did. And now, the opportunity had fallen into their laps. Karl stared at Curry. He was in a jam, a tight spot, or he'd never be here, trying this. There was a look in his eyes that spoke of being really desperate, far more than he'd ever been in his heyday.

The two of them must have fallen on very hard times. Kid looked hungry and exhausted, filthy from the road, and as though he hadn't slept in some time.

All Karl would have to do, he reflected, would be to go along with Kid Curry, bring his friend in and have him treated by the doctor—and wait until the Kid fell asleep.

It would happen eventually; it was inevitable. Then Karl would take him, and see he got what he'd earned: a slow, painful death. The town needed to get its money's worth somehow.

Decision made, he gave a slow, considering nod. "All right. You've got yourself a deal."

"Good," said Curry.

Quietly, Karl hid a grin. "Bad, is he? Your partner? Is he hurting much?"

Curry's face tightened, and his eyes said ugly things. But all he said aloud was an abrupt, "Yes."

Curry rose. "Now we're gonna get up real slow and careful, and walk to the telegram office. And then we'll get someone to go get Heyes," said Kid.

The two men started from the sheriff's office. The cold round barrel of steel pressed into Karl's back. He kept his walk easy, kept in mind his disgust for Curry, and how Curry'd be dead soon. Even so, sweat popped out on his forehead and his heart pounded.

He passed the storekeeper, Mr. Laurence Smith, walking hurriedly through town. Smith cast a startled look at Karl and Curry. Karl gave him a dark look, and a small jerk of his head. "Get help," he mouthed.

Smith's eyes widened, and he hurried away. Good. With the deputies, Karl might be able to jump Curry before he sent off his telegram. Then, all they'd have to do was beat the information about Heyes' location out of him, and they'd kill them both as they wished, and get the reward as well. Everybody would win—except Heyes and Curry.

#

Curry listened carefully as the telegram ticked off the words he'd ordered sent. It sounded right, but he'd never been the best with Morse code, and it was going awfully fast. He hoped it was right. The sheriff had told the telegram man to do it, with his slow nod. And the man had not looked like one to argue with both a gun and a sheriff—and a gun aimed at the sheriff by Kid Curry.

_Lom,_ the message would—or should—read. _Come to Petty Junction. Heyes sick and captured stop. Needs transport elsewhere soon as can travel stop. Don't let them kill him. –Kid Curry._

Lom—if he got the message, if he was fast enough—would see that Heyes got a fair shake. He'd keep watch here till Heyes was well enough to travel, and then see he got back to where he'd get a fair trial.

Jail might not be the thing Heyes would want—but then again, what jail had ever held Heyes? He'd get out, sure as shooting. He'd find a way to charm and finagle or jailbreak his way out in less than two years.

And he'd be alive. That was what mattered. Right now, nothing else mattered.

#

It happened just as Karl had hoped. As he and Curry stepped out of the telegraph office, the deputies moved in. They'd been standing on either side of the door, waiting.

As soon as the two men stepped from the small building, a gun pressed into Curry's side.

Curry stopped, and stood very still.

"Drop it," said Joshua Veil, one of the deputies.

"Or die," added Maxwell Monroe, the other.

They were both big, brawny men who looked like they could've been brothers—if the one hadn't had bright red hair and a constant sunburn, and the other dark black hair and heavy eyebrows over small, mean, piggy eyes. Karl had found them adequate deputies—ferocious, good with firearms, and without any qualms about doing vicious things to protect the town.

"You drop them," said Curry in a harsh croak, "or your boss dies."

"And your friend dies," said Karl. He was sweating, and he stood very still—but he felt the rising sense of triumph. This was the one place where he could hit Curry that the man obviously had no defense against. "Because once you shoot me, you're dead, and we'll never find your friend. He'll slow bleed to death, all alone in the desert." Karl took a chance there, but both were likely.

Curry's gun jabbed harder, viciously, into his back.

Then, slowly, Curry let it drop, and raised his hands into the air.

Karl turned and swung. His fist connected with the soft part of Kid's pretty face, and blood spurted. Kid staggered back, unprepared for the blow, and unable to retaliate while held at gunpoint.

Karl hit him again, and he went down, a startled, pained look on his face. Karl shook out his hand—his knuckles ringing, bloody both with his own and with Kid Curry's blood.

Curry had made Karl vulnerable, made him look small in the town's eyes, and he'd have to pay for that. But he would. There was plenty of time. Karl stared triumphantly down into Kid's face, and let the slow, cold smile grow on his face.

Then he nodded to his deputies, and they hauled the outlaw to his feet, and dragged him off to the jail.

When Curry could talk, he'd tell them where Heyes was. And the town would earn back the honor it had lost all those years ago, when these men escaped the first time. They would have no second escape.

#

Kid had the sinking feeling in his gut that everything was out of control. That grin—Karl didn't mean to let Heyes out of this alive, did he? Even with the telegram….

Kid's mind cranked frantically, trying to think if Karl could find a way around it. How long would it take Lom to get here with backup? How long indeed?

Curry needed to be able to think clearly, think about things the way Heyes would. But he couldn't. His head rang with the punches, and he didn't know how a mind like Karl's would work.

One thing was for sure. The way he'd looked at Kid—he had no more respect for the two outlaws than he'd have had for slugs eating from his garden.

"Take him inside, and work him over," said Karl coolly. "But I want him to be able to talk."

Despite his knowledge of what was coming—he'd known before it ever began—a shiver of terror traversed Kid Curry's spine.

It would all be worth it, if his sacrifice saved Heyes' life.

But that was starting to look like a pretty big 'if.'

#

Karl regarded the work of his deputies with satisfaction. His ferocious men had outdone themselves. Curry, hands tied, looked nearly unconscious, a badly beaten lump. He could barely keep both eyes open, though they'd been careful about his mouth; he would be able to talk.

"Now." Karl stared down at the outlaw in triumph. "Tell us where your friend is."

Kid Curry licked his lips, or tried to. One dazed, distrusting blue eye regarded Karl. "Not sure I should." He coughed, and tried to clear his throat. "Your men enjoyed that. You enjoyed that. You're sads…You're sadis…" He shook his head, and grimaced at the pain from even that movement. He couldn't find the word.

"Sadists?" asked Karl. His grin widened. "We might be, mightn't we? But we're the only chance Hannibal Heyes has. And you did send the telegram."

The two men—one beaten horribly, the other completely in control—stared at one another.

"He's in a cave," said Curry, at last. "I'll tell you where…."

#

Karl went himself to go pick up Hannibal Heyes, taking a posse of only men he knew he could trust. He didn't know how badly the man might be hurt—if he was up to fighting, or shooting. Though Karl doubted that would be the case—Kid was too desperate for Heyes to have much chance left—Karl had to be safe and not sorry.

And if he decided it was better to kill Heyes there, he needed men who would say it had been necessary, if any trouble came because of that blasted telegram to Lom.

#

Something kicked at him, raising Heyes from the depths of the darkness. Pain. Pain bit at him, all through his shoulder, like the fire burning throughout his body. He groaned, tried to curl sideways away from the pain, make himself into a small, unfeeling ball.

Rough hands grabbed at him, hauling him nearly erect. His feet were useless, and he'd have fallen if they hadn't kept him upright. One of them took his right arm, near the shoulder, and he screamed.

"Fling him over the saddle," said a rough voice that sounded somehow familiar. Primal fear, deeper than memory, shot through Heyes. He wished he could think. He wished he could remember who that was, or why he was in the worst danger he had been in for a very very long time. Worse even than dying of gunshot, unless his gut instinct was wrong.

They hauled him, and he felt his mind slipping away from the horror of pain. Part of him regretted it—wouldn't be able to figure this out if he couldn't stay conscious—but the rest of him, the larger part, welcomed the darkness, the temporary relief from pain.

He came-to when a bucket of cold water splashed into his face. He spat and gasped, and tried to focus, but he could barely seem to see.

He was indoors, that much was clear, as a window let light in. Faces stared down at him, one grim with triumph—one he recognized, though he couldn't immediately place it. The other had a sour face and wore glasses.

"He's in a bad way," said the second man. "I don't know what good it'll do, but I'll try to help him. Though I don't know why you'd want me to bother for someone who needs to be hung anyway."

Hung. Yeah, he always knew that might be the way he'd go. But where was Kid? Where was Kid Curry, and how had they found Heyes?

Panic accompanied the sharp return of a memory. That face—that face, and the way poor Old Bill had died….

Karl's smile widened to a look of pure, evil glee as he saw the terror and recognition on Heyes' feverish face. He reached forward, and gave Heyes a pat on his shoulder. A pat that wouldn't have hurt, if it hadn't been on his burning, infected shoulder—

Heyes' scream shook the house. He passed out.

#

Kid Curry was proving remarkably tight-lipped about telling the location of the loot he'd stolen from the town.

"I'm telling you, we—we spent it all," gasped Kid Curry.

He was sagging in the chair, looked close to passing out. They might need to wake him up with another bucket of water.

They'd gotten him to cry out a few times in pain, but they'd never broken that steely look in his blue eyes. The gunslinger was bloodied but unbowed—unbroken. Karl hated that, almost more than the fact that he wouldn't tell where the money was.

Karl had a duty to get that money back for the town. And if that meant beating this man half to death before executing him—well, he had a job to do.

He undid his belt buckle and pulled his belt free. His fists were getting sore, so he needed something else to hit the outlaw with. His deputies stood back and watched.

Monroe had a grin on his face—a sick grin. The other one, Veil, just looked sick. He'd been fine for the first few rounds of beatings, but now he looked like he'd lost all stomach for it. Karl was going to have to rethink Veil's place in this town. He needed men who wouldn't crumple. No room for lily-livers here, men afraid to get their hands dirty.

He drew back the belt.

Damn. Kid Curry had slumped forward, lost the battle with consciousness before the first blow. Karl regretted that—but Kid Curry would regret it more.

"Wake him up," he ordered. "And keep him awake."

He strode from the room to go check on the other one. Hannibal Heyes. He was the slippery one—but not so tough, from everything Karl remembered and had heard and read. He had made this pair his business, since they'd robbed the town. He'd studied everything he could find about them.

Yes, Heyes might be the place to work from. If he were doctored enough to be lucid. That was the reason Karl had decided to keep him alive. He might talk, where Curry might not. And, if he was alive, Karl could always use him against Curry. He smiled inwardly at the thought—and then smiled and raised his hat to the pretty young lady crossing the street.

She smiled and fluttered her eyelashes back at him. Hm, he wouldn't mind getting her alone….

"How is he, Doc?" asked Karl, taking off his hat as he entered the building.

Doctor Franks looked up. "He's improving. Lucid for part of the morning. Fever's going down. He must have a strong constitution. Getting better already with plenty of water, rest, and my doctoring."

"Well, that's fine. I need to move him as soon as possible—as soon as you think he'll be able to stay awake most of the time, and answer questions."

The doctor looked at him knowingly, his face serious. Slowly, he nodded. "I think that ought to be arranged. By tomorrow, if he keeps improving."

Karl gave him a smile, and fitted his hat back on. "Wouldn't want anything to happen to our star prisoner, would we?"

They shared a grin, and Karl left.

#

Kid Curry woke when they threw him on the floor of the jail cell. It jarred his shoulder something horrible, sent pain re-screaming through every pain they'd created in his body. By gritting his teeth shut and keeping his eyes closed and not even twitching, he managed to pull off the illusion that he was still unconscious.

The cell clanged shut and they walked away and left him.

Kid Curry tried to pull himself together enough to think, think. Pain fogged his mind, made it hard to think of anything but the horrible, horrible here and now.

He'd known it would be bad, giving himself up for Heyes, but somehow he hadn't expected it to be this bad—a death and pain this prolonged.

He accepted dying. He'd accepted that—anything to save Heyes. But not like this—not uselessly, with Heyes still in jeopardy with this—this bastard, this man who took pleasure in others' pain. The look in his eyes— Did he really think they still had the money, and they'd be living like this? Or was he simply insane, and enjoyed seeing pain?

Kid wasn't willing to bet either way. And that scared him, especially when he thought of this man getting his hands on Heyes.

He waited till the room was silent, the light off, and began to try to work his swollen, hurting hands, to loosen the rope. He almost screamed in agony. They'd hurt his hands. They'd hurt his hands A LOT. Another gunfighter knew how much hands meant to a man, and Karl hadn't held back….

Biting his lips to keep from crying out, Kid Curry kept working. He was working for his life. More than that, for Heyes' life.

#

"Right. Hope you're ready for a busy morning!" The door banged open and Karl's cheerful, triumphant face showed.

He stared down at Kid with menacing good cheer, and crossed his arms. "Today you're going to talk, and don't think otherwise."

Kid Curry felt his innards trying to curl smaller, an instinctive reaction to the pain he knew this man could cause. He hadn't managed to get his hands free. He hadn't managed to think of a plan. He had managed to pass out after almost two hours of trying. Everything ached this morning, and he still thought his hands might be damaged beyond repair.

It wouldn't have mattered if he could've gotten free. He'd still have had enough mobility to pull a trigger—if it was the last thing he did—but, he hadn't. He'd lost consciousness somewhere in the hours of the night, trying.

Karl made no move to get Kid from the cell. He looked back out the door, and jerked his head.

Heyes. Curry's heart skittered and seemed to stop. Oh, no. They had Heyes!

The dark-haired ex-outlaw staggered into the room, pale to the roots of his hair, a dazed look in his dark, expressive eyes, a look of numb pain and barely-restrained terror. Curry could feel its echo yammering in the back of his brain, beginning to scream terror and fury.

One of the deputies—the meaner one—pushed Heyes ahead of him, one beefy hand clamped down on his arm so he couldn't get away. Heyes didn't look strong enough to stand on his own, much less walk. But he did look better than he had in the cave.

Maybe he could survive, if—

"In the chair," instructed Karl, and the deputy shoved Heyes roughly into the chair. THE chair. The same one they'd worked Curry over yesterday in. Curry felt something die inside him. No. Not Heyes. Not Heyes, too!

If they tortured Heyes, then it was for nothing. It was for less than nothing, because at least Heyes would be out of pain by now, if he'd died back there in the cave. Wetness pricked Kid's eyes, and he swallowed, hard.

"He needs the doctor," croaked Kid. And then bit his lip. Anything he said would give Karl ammunition….

"Yes, he does," acknowledged Karl. He smiled broadly. "And I'll send him right back to one, if you'll tell me where to find the money you stole from this town."

He curled his hand into a fist, and applied his knuckles—not even very hard—to the white bandages wrapped over Heyes' wounded shoulder.

The effect was immediate. Heyes screamed, writhing away from the knuckles. Karl's knuckles followed, didn't let up pressure. Heyes was helpless as a baby, even against the relatively light pressure Karl was exerting.

"Stop! Karl! Stop!" Kid Curry surged to his feet unsteadily, using strength he hadn't known he had left. He pushed his chest against the bars. "Stop it, Karl! I'll tell you anything! Leave him alone!"

The knuckles let up. Karl's smile widened slowly.

"Just—leave him alone," said Kid. He was trembling all over.

Heyes sagged, gasping for breath. He looked very ill. Kid was almost glad he couldn't see his friend's eyes. Or any accusation that might be in them.

"Then tell me where you stored the money?"

"We—we didn't. We spent it. On—on wasteful things. I'd take it back if I could. But we don't have it. We—the Devil's Hole gang—we all spent it. Gambling. L-loose living. Dancing girls." He hung his head, thinking of all the money they'd thrown around. Such a waste. Such a waste! Why, he and Heyes could've lived well for a month for what they'd wasted in a day back then. "I'd give anything to undo what we did, but I can't. It's—gone."

"Then," said Karl, with growing wrath, "you'll pay another way."

Karl whirled and slammed his fist into Heyes' shoulder.

"No!"

Kid's cry blended with the scream that came from his friend's mouth—the scream mercifully cut short, as Heyes fainted.

Blood darkened the white of Heyes' bandage. Too much blood.

Kid banged against the bars, tied up and shaking, with hot, helpless tears sliding down his face.

#

It didn't take long. Karl only had to waken the dark-haired one once, and bring him near passing out a second time, and Kid Curry cracked.

"We—we stashed it—in the caves near here. Had to get away quick, couldn't risk getting c-caught with it. I'll tell you where," he gasped.

The man was pathetic—crying over the pain of his partner, where he'd barely made a yelp over his own. Such weakness should be exploited. These men were weak—stupid—and they had stolen money from the town. They deserved everything they'd get.

After Kid agreed to guide him to the money, Karl let the men take Heyes back to the doctor. He didn't want the outlaw dying, not when he might be needed again.

Then he told them to untie Kid's hands, and give him some water and something to eat. He had to be fit to ride, to take Karl to get the town's money.

Kid Curry held his swollen, injured hands in front of himself, and moved them stiffly. He stared down at them with a look of dismay.

"What's the matter? Afraid we messed up your aim?" taunted Karl.

Kid kept his head down, and grew very still. He stared down at his hands. His only movement was to try to close his hands. He couldn't.

Karl leaned towards the cell, and the broken, bowed man inside it. "It's nothing compared to what we'll do to your friend if you don't take me to that money before sunset."

#

Kid Curry couldn't hold the reins correctly. They slipped through his swollen, throbbing hands. He was fairly sure they'd never heal correctly. He tried not to think about that, not to be vain about the thought that he wouldn't be able to hold a gun again in his short life. What was left of it. He'd always thought, if he died, it would be—well—as a man. Not like this. Not taking someone on a wild goose chase, just to earn his friend a few short moments respite, a desperate ploy to buy time till Lom arrived.

Kid had never had a worse moment in his life than when they found out their parents were dead. All their families were dead.

He never had lived a worse day that that. But—seeing Heyes tortured, and knowing it was his fault—that had to come close. Really close.

"Hurry up," snapped Karl, riding behind him. "We don't have all day."

The idiot really thought Kid could give him his money back, and he couldn't any more than he could give back the food he'd eaten last year, or the air he'd breathed.

All the same, Kid kicked his heels into the horse. He had to keep the man busy for as long as he could, and try to make a chance to kill this man.

Because if Karl was dead—no matter what it cost Kid—then Heyes, when his turn came to die, would have an easier death. And he might even live long enough for Lom to arrive.

Kid tried to steer with his knees, to save what was left of his hands. He was going to need them, one last time.

#

Heyes woke up. At first, just the pain was his companion. Then he remembered, with a shock almost worse than the pain, the last thing he'd seen. Kid Curry, reduced to tears, promising that vile man anything, anything to protect Heyes from torture.

It had worked. They'd sent Heyes back to the doctor—he passed out on the way—and now he was back, re-bandaged, rested—and leaving Kid alone with that man. Kid. Heyes had been helpless to protect him, helpless even to keep from screaming.

The pain was unbelievably—and yet too real and immediate to be disbelieved.

He'd wanted to curse Kid, to ask "Why didn't you let me die?"

But he hadn't. That was one thing he could be glad of. He hadn't said those ugly words.

Mainly, because he couldn't talk at all.

The doctor looked in on him, a cold-faced man, who treated him clinically, as he'd have treated an animal that disgusted him, but had value if kept alive.

He gave Heyes some more medicine to drink, and then moved away again.

And Heyes looked around for something to help him escape. Because he couldn't stay here another minute when Kid Curry was in that kind of danger—no matter what it cost him.

A knife or a gun would be ideal. Instead, he fastened on a glass, nearly empty of water. Moving with painful, slow movement, stopping frequently to keep from hissing aloud with pain or doubling over in agony, he reached towards the little table beside his bed, and the glass.

With any luck, the doctor would think he'd carried it back to the kitchen, empty.

Heyes grasped the glass and drew it towards himself only a little shakily. He drank the water, and quickly hid the glass beneath his blanket, kept it wrapped in his hand.

He got his eyes closed just in time, before the doctor stepped back into the room.

#

Kid slowly and carefully rounded the hazardous turn on the rocky path, which lay very close to the caves. The caves not far from where Heyes had been dying so recently.

Curry swallowed painfully. He needed water. He hadn't had any since Karl's men had captured him, except for the few mouthfuls Karl had ordered the deputies to give him before they set off. He really, really could've used more.

If he got free, he could go to the spring by the cave where he'd kept Heyes hidden. He could go there, and drink, and drink, and find some way to rescue Heyes with ruined hands.

But first things first—to get free.

He rounded the turn as slowly as he possibly could—and then spurred his horse forward. She skittered nervously, unhappy with the tense man on her back who would not give her clear directions with the reins.

Behind him, Karl yelled something—it sounded like Stop!, but he couldn't be certain over the clatter of his horse's hooves.

Karl galloped after Curry, and a firearm discharged. Into the air? He wouldn't shoot Kid, would he? Because he needed him alive. Kid kicked his heels into the horse, at the same time the horse whinnied in terror and leapt forward on her own.

Then, the unthinkable happened. Kid Curry fell off a horse.

#

Heyes was moving more easily, even though it hurt. The fever was still with him, but he could feel it abating. He didn't want to let on, of course. He stayed as still and weak-looking as he could.

He broke the cup carefully one time the doctor left the room, wrapping it in a bloody rag and banging it against the headboard, wincing at the clatter it made even inside the rag. He salvaged the biggest piece that had a sharp, knife-like edge, wrapped the base in a rag and hefted its weight. It would be a good weapon—considering his other choice was nothing. He had to hold it carefully so as not to cut himself, and the other broken pieces he hid under his blanket, still wrapped in the bloody rag.

He waited till the doctor, wearing a slightly distasteful grimace, leaned over to check his bandages. He waited till the doctor's attention was clearly on his wound—and then he moved. Heyes worked his hand out from under the sheet, carefully holding his glass weapon.

With a flash, the knife-edge of glass moved to rest next to the doctor's neck.

"Steady now," said Heyes in a silky, hard voice. "Help me up."

He couldn't sit up without his good hand yet, and he needed that to keep the doctor at bay.

The doctor stiffened, beginning to draw back.

Heyes said softly, "Don't make one wrong move. Be a shame for a doctor to die over a desperate criminal like me."

The doctor eyed the glass and then the hard look in Heyes' eyes. Then he grasped Heyes' good shoulder and pulled him slowly to a sitting position.

"Good," gasped Heyes, his voice coming out odd from the pain. He took a few deep breaths, but kept his makeshift knife pressed close to the vulnerable neck.

The doctor eyed him, as if trying to decide whether he could dare risk it. Heyes kept his face as hard and dangerous as he could. He had to be convincing. His life, and Kid's life, depended on it.

#

Kid struggled to cling to consciousness, and scrambled to his feet, biting his lip to keep from screaming. His breath came in hot gasps of pain. His body was pure pain.

Fortunately, the tough Curry blood saw him straight: he stayed conscious, and got to his feet, stumbling in the uneven, stony surface of the ground near the caves.

His horse dashed one way, and Karl urged his horse forward.

Kid scrambled towards the caves. He'd be too slow to escape the bullets, of course—if Karl dared shoot at him. If. He was banking everything on Karl not daring to shoot.

"Stop! Kid Curry, stop or I'll gun you down like a dog!" thundered Karl. A gunshot rang, pinging over the stones.

Kid flinched, but kept running. Karl was too close; he must have missed on purpose.

Kid reached the nearest edge of a cave, and ran all out, pelting on legs that screamed for mercy, frantic terror and steely termination giving him the strength to keep going.

A feral roar filled the canyon. It echoed, bouncing off all the caves and their walls.

He was in the cave, the dark, coolness. Water trickled nearby, reminding Kid of his thirst, which seemed to have quadrupled itself at the reminder. He moved further into the cave, though—no time to stop. Karl was coming. He could hear the man dismounting from his horse, and striding towards the cave, swearing and cursing, and promising all the things he'd do if Curry didn't come back right this instant, and show him where the money was stashed.

Kid Curry shivered—because most of the things were to Heyes.

#

Heyes needed boots. He couldn't get boots on with one hand, and that one hand held the doctor hostage. He couldn't tell the doctor to put boots on him either, or the doctor would be out of his reach and the reach of the cut glass knife.

And he was tiring fast.

So he did the only thing he could. "Get me your gun," he ordered, jerking his head towards the gun that hung over a chair three steps away.

Yes, in this town even doctors went armed to the teeth.

It might as well have been a mile away, for all Heyes could walk there on his own and get it before the doctor got away—and called help. And then—a quick shootout, and Heyes was dead, no help to Curry or himself.

It might be better than a longer death, but no. Curry needed him. Heyes had to play this especially smart.

"Together. We move together," he instructed the doctor.

Skeptical, mocking eyes questioned him.

Heyes moved his hand, in a flash, closer to the neck. "You think I can't kill you? You think I'd mind, after what Karl did to my friend?" he croaked the words.

It was surprisingly easy to act this angry, this fierce. In fact, it was a little frightening. He pushed the worry away, and let himself make use of the rage and pain that filled him.

He pressed the glass close—and watched as a trickle of blood crept from the doctor's neck.

He felt both sickened and triumphant at the same time. It was a strange way to feel.

The doctor jerked back and Heyes followed, moving with a strength that surprised him; he hadn't known he could be this fierce and strong when he had to be. Perhaps because he'd never been quite this desperate.

Somehow, he got to his feet, and followed the doctor, keeping the glass dangerous and close to the man's neck, and his gaze like steel mining tools, boring into the doctor's gaze. Leaving no doubt at all that he was a vicious killer, and would do it if he had to.

The doctor eased forward, step by slow step, and reached, fumbled for the gun.

"Sling it over my arm," said Heyes, and the doctor did. Heyes drew shaky breaths through his teeth at the pain that radiated through him from his shoulder.

His good arm was weakening, staying up in the air, keeping the glass at the doctor's neck. It made it shaky; it frightened the doctor.

The gun was over his good arm now, weighing it down more. Guns and gun belts loaded with ammunition weighed a lot. His arm sagged alarmingly.

"Put it round my waist, round my waist," he gasped quickly. What had he been thinking?

Slowly, the doctor bent, making slow movements so as not to jar the glass knife. He fastened the belt clumsily around Heyes waist.

Then he straightened. The two men stared at each other. Heyes was tiring fast. The doctor eyed him, no doubt wondering who would be faster.

Heyes stepped back at the same time he dropped the knife from exhausted fingers, and fumbled for the gun with his good hand. The glass clattered to the floor and broke, and the doctor moved forward in a surge.

Heyes wasn't as fast as Curry. But he was faster than the doctor.

Heyes grabbed the gun and aimed.

"Try it," he rasped, threatening the man who had helped save his life. Helped keep him alive to be tortured by a maniac. "I'm desperate, remember?"

The doctor stopped. Slowly, he raised his hands. "What do you want?"

"Some more medicine. Water. Food, and a horse."

"I can't give you all that."

"Then give me what you can, and I'll tie you up instead of killing you, _Doctor_." Heyes put hate into the words, and the doctor read it easily.

He swallowed, and gave a slow nod. "I'll get the things."

"Stay where I can watch you," said Heyes, distrustful of any medicine the doctor might decide to give him now.

He kept a close watch on the man. His shoulder was bleeding again, and he felt faint and hot, but he was on his feet. He mustn't lie down again, or even sit, or he might not be able to get up again. He leaned back against the bed a little, though, to support himself. And he watched the doctor.

#

Kid Curry stumbled through the dark cave, wincing at the sound of his feet ringing against the stones. The trickling of water was nearer now. Madness! To have it so close, and yet—

"I can hear you," taunted Karl. "And your friend's going to pay for it if you don't come back right now and show me where the money is."

"It's in here," said Kid suddenly, and then winced, wondering whether it was his evil angel that had made him say such a thing. He'd just told Karl where he was. But Kid never could seem to take it calmly when Heyes was threatened.

"Is it?" Greed entered Karl's voice. "Where? Near here?"

Kid gulped. "Near here."

_Moron, _he berated himself silently._ You should've kept your mouth shut._

His foot splashed in wetness, and he sank gratefully to his knees, and tried to scoop up water with his ruined hands. Most of it ran out. He groaned. He bent forward, feeling light-headed and in danger of falling, until his lips met the water. He drank like a horse that hadn't had water all day.

#

Heyes hooked the sack of food, medicine, and water over his shoulder carefully, keeping his gun and his eyes trained on the doctor.

"Now stuff that cloth in your mouth, and wrap that rope round yourself and the chair, tight as you can," he ordered, and watched steely-eyed and lightheaded as the doctor obeyed half-heartedly.

"Tighter than that," he instructed, and watched to see he was obeyed.

He moved forward then, daring to risk his bad hand holding the gun—winced at the weight of it on his shoulder—and quickly yanked the rope tight with his good hand. The pain echoed through his body and he clamped down on it, told himself not to, not to weaken. The doctor grunted; the rope must be tight.

He fumbled with the knots. It needed two hands to tie. He couldn't—well, perhaps he could—

He set the gun down carefully on the table behind the doctor, and grasped both ends of the rope. He fumbled to tie it, mostly using his good hand, using his other to keep the ends from slipping away. His heart yammered hysterically as he struggled to get it tied, all the time afraid the doctor would make a break for it and overpower him. He felt weak as a kitten; it wouldn't be hard for anyone, even an older man, to overpower him right now.

He gave the ropes another yank, and hurriedly tied the cloth as well. Then he scrambled back and for the gun, and edged from the room, panting as though he'd just been for a long run.

Now. To find Kid.

He edged from the back door of the house, and moved for the back of town with awkward, hunched steps, praying that no one would see him.

#

Joshua Veil entered the stable morosely. He'd seen the way the sheriff looked at him, when Joshua started feeling ill about the things they were doing to that outlaw. When Karl got back—with the money, and only possibly with the outlaw still alive—Joshua knew his job would probably be under review.

But it had been going too far. He wanted to keep the town safe as much as anybody, and an iron hand in a glove—or however that saying went—was fine. But the iron hand shouldn't mean torturing someone who was helpless. Executing, yeah. Even beating. But—something just felt wrong about it, even if it was Karl's orders.

He might as well get used to the idea of moving on, Veil reflected. He'd probably have no choice, before long. This town had been good to him, but he had the feeling it might not be for much longer.

If you were on Karl's good side, the town was all honey and clover. If you were on his bad side—well, you didn't find yourself staying in town long, that was all.

He saddled his horse, preparing to take a ride. He needed to get away and think. Think what he could do, for one thing.

A pistol clicked, not far from his face. His head jerked up.

"Don't move."

Veil found himself face to face with the dark-haired, dangerous-eyed outlaw Heyes. Heyes' bandage was bloody, and he looked sick and faint. But there was no arguing with the fierce look in his eyes—or the steadiness of his gun.

"Finish saddling," said Heyes, standing very still indeed. He was leaned against a post that held up the barn—as if casually, but Veil suspected it was really to keep himself from falling over.

Slowly, Veil saddled his horse, trying to keep calm, to not worry about what this dangerous outlaw might do to him. This man had been tortured, and he was desperate. How could he not blame Veil for it? It wasn't as though Veil had said anything, or tried to stop it….

"That rope, too." Heyes jerked his head. "Sling it over the saddle horn."

Veil complied. Sweat slicked the back of his neck, and he stepped back. "You'll be good to her, won't you? She's a good horse. She'll see you right."

Heyes jerked his head in a nod, his mouth tight. "Get over here."

Slowly, Veil shuffled closer. His heart thumped in his chest, and he wondered what it felt like to be dead.

Lightning fast, the outlaw's hand rose, and the gun's butt slammed down on Veil's head. Darkness descended, and he barely had time to see the outlaw reel from the blow he'd delivered, and start to fall.

#

Lom was riding towards the town of Petty Junction past some caves when he heard an echo. Human voices, it sounded like. Someone being hurt.

He dug his heels into his horse's sides, and sprang forward to investigate, reaching for his gun. He was nearly to the caves.

What he found surprised him. It was the sight of one man beating another—past the point where you should beat any man, no matter the cause. The man on the ground—whose voice sounded vaguely familiar somehow—screamed "No—it's not—I told you. There's no—AUGH!"

"Then I'll take it out of your hide!" said the other man, and drew back his fist yet again.

"Stop!" ordered Lom. "Or I'll shoot."

The man didn't hesitate. He drew his gun and whirled.

The first shot missed Lom wildly. Lom ducked down in his saddle and leaned sideways, aiming. His horse sidestepped, whinnying in fear. Lom aimed, and shot. He tried to hit the man in the shoulder—but blood spurted from the middle of the man's chest and he dropped backwards like a stone.

Heart thumping, Lom spurred his horse forward. He looked down at the dead man, then dismounted and leaned over and closed the man's eyes. The shiny star on the man's chest winked up at him, pathetic somehow, and ironic. Lom hadn't meant to shoot a sheriff. But he hadn't had much choice, either.

He moved to the injured man, who was trying to crawl away, and coughing blood.

"Kid?" asked Lom, bending down over him. He hadn't recognized Kid Curry at first, and now he was alarmed at the sight of the swollen face before him, the horribly beaten young man, and his ruined hands—

"Lom," said Kid, trying to peer out of swollen eyes. "He caught me at the—the water." Kid babbled words that made no sense. "Thought he could beat it out of me, but there's nothing left to b-beat. Lom, they got Heyes…."

His voice trailing away, Kid Curry slowly collapsed in Lom's arms.

#

Lom shielded his eyes against the sun, and squinted towards town. The sheriff was dead, and Kid Curry was in the saddle in front of Lom. He couldn't let him ride alone, needed to hold the half-conscious man up. Kid was in a bad way, though some water and a strong shot of whiskey had helped somewhat. He was still mumbling things that didn't quite make sense. Lom kept reassuring Kid that they'd get to Heyes, and he would be fine.

Now he saw a rider coming towards them, from town. Only, it didn't move like a normal horse and rider. The horse was moving very casually, picking its way over the rocky ground and pausing to eat. The rider slumped forward at an unusual angle.

As they got closer, Kid mumbled and straightened slightly in his saddle. "Heyes."

Lom squinted closer, but he couldn't see it. Whoever it was, he was slumped forward, not even holding the reins. He appeared to have slung rope round himself and tied it onto the saddle horn so he couldn't fall off.

Oh. It was Heyes. Lom recognized that hat now, and then the shoulders. Lom wondered how Kid, who could hardly see from his swollen eyes, had known so instantly, from afar.

He saw now that Heyes' shoulder was bandaged heavily, but the once-white cloth was now dark with blood; it hadn't been immediately visible against the color of his shirt.

Lom kneed his horse forward, trying not to jar Kid Curry unnecessarily, and caught up with the horse. He jarred Kid a little when he reached down for the reins, but Kid didn't so much as grunt. All his focus was on Heyes.

"Hannibal Heyes, wake up," ordered Lom, putting a bit of command and irritation into his voice. He could tell how much Heyes' unconsciousness frightened Kid Curry, and it made him uneasy as well.

A dark hat jerked up, and startled, frightened, dark eyes blinked at Lom. Lom saw the panic and lack of recognition—and then the slow relaxation, as the faces before him made sense to Heyes' brain.

"Lom. Kid," Heyes breathed. "What—happened?"

"Lom shot Karl. I'm still alive," croaked Kid.

That seemed to say it all.

#

Lom led Heyes' horse, and with Kid's croaking encouragement, found them a secluded spot where they couldn't be snuck up on easily. It was near a stream, a bubbling, cheerful stream. Both ex-outlaws fastened on it hungrily.

Lom got off his horse, and gently helped Kid down. Kid passed out again on the way down, and Lom arranged him as carefully as he could. Then he helped the anxious-eyed Heyes down, and laid him out as well, next to his partner. He gave them both water, and then began to tend their wounds as best he could.

Lom hadn't lived as an outlaw for years without learning something; he knew a few things about emergency wound care. But Kid was in a bad way, and Heyes wasn't much better.

At least Lom had brought plenty of whiskey. It would work both as a pain reliever and a wound cleaner. Lom let Kid stay unconscious as long as he could, tending his wounds carefully. When Kid awoke, Lom gave him lots of water and whiskey, and finished cleaning and bandaging his wounds—and his poor, poor hands—to the best of his ability.

Heyes was more stoic when it was his turn, but his dark eyes showed his agony, staring up at Lom with a bleakness he'd never seen before in those eyes. It frightened Lom, like he was staring at something stark, like he was looking into the actual face of death.

"Don't give up, you hear me?" whispered Lom. Kid was out again, but he didn't want to risk waking him. "He's gonna recover, and so are you. You both got through all this alive, so don't give up now."

Heyes' good hand squeezed shut, so tight the knuckles turned white. He looked ashen under his tan, and damn near crying. "He'll never be able to shoot again, Lom."

"Sure he will." Lom made his voice hearty. "That's Kid Curry you're talking about. He's one tough son of a bitch."

Heyes' eyes searched Lom's. "I hope you're right. He did it for me, you know…." His voice trailed off, hopelessly, and he turned away to face the growing darkness.

At last both outlaws fell asleep, and Lom was left alone with his thoughts. He kept watch over the men, not daring to risk falling asleep. He watched them, two lumps under horse blankets, these men who seemed to suffer even in their sleep. It was a bad world for men trying to get out of the outlaw trade, sometimes.

#

Heyes wakened partway through the night from the throb of pain in his shoulder, slightly louder than when he'd fallen into exhausted sleep. There was nothing to distract him from it now. He stared at the stars, the great expansive bowl of night sky overhead, and thought about the wounded man sleeping only a few feet away from him.

Kid. Kid, and his hands. Poor Kid…. He shifted, trying to find a more comfortable spot, and grunted in pain as the movement jarred his shoulder again.

"Heyes?" asked a groggy, familiar voice.

Heyes stilled. "Yeah, Kid?"

"I'm sorry, H-Heyes." His voice caught on the name. "It's my fault. If I hadn't gone to town—" For a moment, he was silent.

The night stretched between them, silent but for the creaks and calls of bugs.

"You know I'd do anything for you, Heyes. Anything. I thought I could fix things—but I made it worse." His voice cracked.

Heyes' vision of the stars blurred. "You tried to do the right thing, Kid. I know that. And we're alive, so you must've done something right. But your hands, your hands, Kid."

He heard a strangled sound, and felt an answering stab in his heart.

"Kid—don't—don't cry. I can't stand it." His voice cracked.

Nearby, Lom stirred. His head came up from where it had drooped towards his chest, and he rubbed at his face. "What are you two doing awake?" he croaked. "Here, let me give you some more whiskey and medicine…."

He moved forward, with careful, competent hands, to tend the two wounded men, both in silent tears.

#

Morning sun wakened Heyes to another day of living. And living with everything that had happened.

Lom checked his bandages, gave him some more of the medicine Heyes had gotten from the doctor, and told him he was looking better.

Then Lom got Kid up and checked his wounds. Heyes was able to take care of his own business, to stumble off to the bushes and relieve himself once Lom helped heft him to his feet. But Kid was too weak and he couldn't use his hands; Lom had to help him undo his pants before he could leave. It made Heyes feel hot with shame for his always-independent friend, and angry all over again for how Kid had been hurt.

Kid returned looking white-faced, his curls drenched with sweat. His eyes were open a little more today, and you could see the pain in them.

Lom tended them both, and tried to talk bluffly cheerful to keep them from focusing gloomily on everything that had happened. He managed to get them into their saddles, and riding. He had to hold Kid up.

Heyes could eat, but Kid's mouth wasn't up to chewing the hard biscuit and beef jerky that were all the supplies Lom had on him. So Kid drank water, and medicine, and liquor, and sagged in the saddle, not saying anything, obviously aching with everything he had.

They got through that day somehow, and travelled farther than Heyes would've expected. Lom led them competently around the town and far away, past it. The land was greener here, and Lom said there was a town ahead. A good town, a peaceful place.

"I have to go back to Petty Junction, and explain what happened with the sheriff, or you two will be blamed," said Lom. "It wasn't murder, it was self-defense, but no one will know that if I don't tell them, and you'll both be blamed.

"But they should listen to me. And I'll say that you, Kid, escaped while I was trying to bring you back to town. You need to ride straight on, as quick as you can, and get to that town. Get the doctor to take care of you. Find some food Kid can eat, and stock up. Here. I have some money on me."

Coins jingled, bills rustled, as Lom counted over most of what he had. A fair amount of money. Heyes raised his eyebrows in surprise, but accepted it.

Lom looked into his face. "It's not a loan. I don't want to hear anything about you paying it back. And I'm going to talk to the governor again soon about your amnesty." He hesitated, and then reached out and gave Heyes an awkward pat on the arm. He included Kid in his next look, though he didn't try to pat him anywhere. "You two take care of each other."

#

They had one horse between them, and Heyes had to work the reins. Kid Curry tried not to look at his hands, not to think about the fact that they used to be the fastest hands in the West.

He'd be lucky if he could ever draw a gun again, much less fire it.

Still. It was worth it, if it helped save Heyes' life. Kid still wasn't sure he'd done the right thing. But he'd gladly trade his hands for Heyes' life—any day of the week.

"Kid," said Heyes in a meditative voice, not devoid of pain.

"Yeah?"

"You want to give it up, and go to jail?"

"What?" Curry tried to turn in the saddle and gape at his friend. The pain this caused quickly convinced him not to bother. He sat as still as he could and repeated himself. "What?"

"I mean it. They'd tend your hands. We'll be no good on our own for a while, and while we're in this—this no man's land of trying to go straight but not having our amnesty, we're prey to every crazy man like Karl around. To everyone who's mad at us, with or without reason."

"Yeah," said Kid. He tried to think carefully how he could answer Heyes. Heyes would talk himself into jail if Kid wasn't careful. "We did do the town wrong, Heyes. And yeah, I won't be able to protect you for a while, 'cause my hands are…bad."

He stared sadly down at the swollen, bandaged lumps.

Heyes sucked in a breath, as though he'd been hit in the gut. "Kid, I—I should've protected you—"

"We protect each other," said Kid firmly. "It might be harder for a time. But we've come this far, and I don't think we should give up." He drew a deep breath that hurt his ribs. "And I don't think we can look after each other very well in jail. There might be people just as dangerous as Karl there, and no Lom to rescue us."

He held his breath. He could almost hear Heyes' thoughts ticking away, weighing up the pros and cons, the different issues at stake. At last Heyes let out a quiet snort.

Kid relaxed subtly, knowing that he'd won the argument neither of them could afford for him to lose. Heyes would be like a wild bird caged in captivity, if you put him in jail. He'd look the same on the outside, but he'd die inside a little more each day. Kid knew he couldn't stand to watch that any more than he could stand Heyes dying for real. And Kid…Kid didn't think he would manage very well in jail, either.

"You're right," said Heyes, in a calmer voice than Kid had heard from Heyes recently. "We're low now, but we'll recover—bloodied but unbowed."

His hands tightened ever so slightly around Kid's middle. Kid winced at the pressure, but smiled at what it meant—Heyes, the old Heyes, who'd never give up—was back.

#

Doctor Clemens eyed the two jittery, injured men. They had obviously been hurt badly, and on purpose. Nobody had an accident that left his hands like that.

The other one, the one with the dark, expressive eyes, seemed to hold whole lifetimes of anxiety in them. He held the gun warily, but also guiltily. And they were both jumpy as scalded cats.

Clemens kept his movements slow, so he wouldn't frighten them worse. Sometimes, when people had been hurt badly enough, you had to treat them like frightened colts.

Clemens kept his hands careful and competent as he un-bandaged, treated, and re-bandaged the wounds. Each man radiated concern, jittery nerves, and fear.

"These will heal up, in time. You might even have normal use of them someday," he told the blue-eyed man, finishing the last of the bandages on his hands.

Blue eyes sparked, full of fierce determination. "No 'might' about it, Doc."

"Well, son, you'll have to take things slow. It's going to take time." The doctor kept his voice gentle.

He didn't hazard any guesses about how the wounds had been received, and he didn't ask questions. Not that he'd expect an answer, when they held a gun on him. Though in truth, he'd not have asked much either way. Whatever these boys were into, it was obvious they weren't on the right side of the law.

As soon as they left, he should report this to the sheriff. But Clemens found himself wondering if they hadn't already paid, more than enough, for their wrongdoings—whatever they might be.

"You'd better let me check that shoulder." He nodded to the dark-eyed, expressive man holding the gun.

The two outlaws exchanged a glance. "Better not," said the gunman. "My friend ain't quite up to holding the gun yet."

"Well, hold it in your good hand. I'm not likely to be able to overpower the both of you, son, even if you are injured." Clemens smiled at them. "I have a touch of the arthritis, you know."

Another wordless exchange between the men. Then the dark-haired one nodded. "Okay. Thanks." He got his jacket off, though it obviously hurt to do so.

Clemens checked the healing shoulder. It was obviously hurting a lot, and the man couldn't bandage it very well himself. Clemens fixed him up the best he could, while the white-faced outlaw held the gun in his good hand, by his side.

Clemens probably could've overpowered him, even with arthritis, even under the watchful eye of the man with the ruined hands. But he didn't consider such a thing.

He was gentle with them, and when they were fixed up as best he could fix them, he offered them part of his Sunday roast.

They were too skittish to stay. The dark-eyed one thanked him and apologized for their precaution with the gun, and the other one nodded his gratitude solemnly and said, "Thanks, Doc."

They left a generous payment for the doctor. Then the dark-eyed man lifted his hat, and the two went away, as quietly and quickly as they'd come.

Clemens watched them go, the way they favored each other, and the more-than-animal caution they showed between them with every movement. He found himself hoping they'd make it.

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end

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_Thanks for reading, if you got this far! I struggled with the end, thinking that a happy, upbeat end didn't quite fit, and the best I could go for was "hopeful for the future," without disrespecting everything they'd been through in the story. Also, I didn't spend as long editing this as I do on some stories. You may have seen some errors... Overall, I'm not certain why I wrote this story, except that it came to me and seemed to "demand" to be written, though again, I'm not sure why! Take care._

-Allie


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